


The Sniper Vanishes

by okapi



Series: The Sniper Vanishes 'verse (Moran/Moriarty) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Assassins & Hitmen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, POV Alternating, Seb WHUMP, Snipers, Temporary Amnesia, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24492826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Sebastian Moran boards a train in the fictional country of Bandrika to kill another passenger, but nothing goes according to plan.Written for the Fandom for Oz auction. Rated Teen for language.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Series: The Sniper Vanishes 'verse (Moran/Moriarty) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718791
Comments: 26
Kudos: 17
Collections: Fandom For Australia





	1. Part 1: Chapter 1: At the Station

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> Thanks to [Small Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit) for the beta & thanks to [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon) for supporting Australian bushfire relief. 
> 
> Almost all of the original characters are not really original. Many of them (except Marie) or at least their names are taken from the 1939 Hitchcock film _The Lady Vanishes_. The fictional European country of Bandrika [approximately the location of Liechtenstein] is also taken from that film. A warning that this is a work-in-progress. Part 1 is written but Part 2 isn't but I plan to finish and post the second half by the end of June 2020. The rating for this fic will stay Teen for language. The two other fics in this series occur prior to this event and are Explicit MorMor PWP, and I expect to write another PWP MorMor epilogue occuring after events in this fic. Hope you enjoy.

Sebastian Moran drank the rest of his coffee and wished that he had time for a second cup. The coffee in Bandrika was exceptionally good, but the train was already boarding, and he needed to check on his luggage.

No matter how much he appreciated the coffee’s singular flavour—something woody, something nutty, he was no connoisseur, but he knew what he liked—Sebastian wouldn’t have considered purchasing any.

Hired guns travelled light. No room for souvenirs.

Sebastian paid for the coffee and shot a deliberately flirtatious look at the comely waitress.

He was playing a part, and he’d learned that the little gestures helped.

And he needed help because Sebastian Moran was, by his nature, neither chameleon nor actor. He found it challenging, sometimes impossible, to simply disappear into a setting or to blend into a scene. If anyone’d ever asked, he’d say he preferred not to be seen at all rather than to be seen and then forgotten. Being seen risked being remembered, and that was to be avoided.

He preferred darkness and shadows. He preferred to conduct his business, the business of selective, well-remunerated death and mayhem, when most of the world was sleeping soundly in their beds. He liked emptiness, too: empty houses, empty warehouses, empty fields, empty streets.

Nevertheless, a job was a job, and here he was, doing his very best to hide in plain sight.

Sebastian made his way through the crowd on the platform, turning his head deliberately and, he hoped, inconspicuously, studying the whole of his environs, objects as well as people. He was headed for the queue of luggage trolleys beside the train. A cadre of gold-and-black uniformed train attendants buzzed about them like fastidious bees.

That was when Sebastian saw him.

_Bloody hell, what was he doing here?_

This changed everything.

* * *

“Please hurry,” implored Mycroft Holmes in accented Bandrikan. “I must catch my train!”

Mycroft’s show of impatience with the taxi driver was, in fact, pure performance. He was actually pleased with the timing of his arrival at the station. The haste required at this point was in his favour, masking the surge of adrenaline as the critical hour approached and reinforcing his role of an absent-minded professor morbidly afraid of missing his train.

The part of professor was as comfortable as the woolly moth-eaten cardigan Mycroft had been wearing for the better part of a fortnight. He’d enjoyed holding forth on the polyphonic motets of Lassus, working fastidiously on sundry monographs, and peering out at the world through wire-rimmed spectacles.

Not Switzerland, not Austria, not Italy, the Alpine country of Bandrika looked like a child’s snow globe and was about as large. On the pretext of making a study of Bandrikan church architecture, Mycroft had left the university and skirted the lake that separated Bandrika from Germany. The avalanche which had stopped all travel in and out of the tiny country on the previous day had fitted into his plans, too. He took a moment, a luxury, really, to appreciate the picture postcard scene outside the taxi window.

But now his holiday was over.

Mycroft abhorred legwork, but nothing would prevent him from seizing this opportunity. It was a loose end which had been left frayed for far too long, and this wasn’t a task he would delegate to anyone.

He hurried through the station, gripping his suitcase, and dragging a heavy trunk behind him. The trunk was a prop. Time to jettison it. He glanced in the direction of the luggage carts.

And that was when Mycroft saw him.

_Bloody hell, what was he doing here?_

This changed everything.

* * *

Jim Moriarty changed his mind again. He should disappear. Blend into the scene. Walk off the stage without anyone in the audience the wiser. Change of costume, change of character. It was easy for him. As easy as pie. Or cake. Or any other confection. Clothes maketh the man, and Jim Moriarty had a cast of thousands waiting in the dressing room of his mind. He only needed the right costume to discard one skin and slip into another.

But what was he doing here? It was all wrong. He’d made a mistake, a mistake that required swift correction.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He should go. Mission abort. What had he been thinking? His plan was unnecessarily risky as well as foolish. And pointless. It exposed him, and he didn’t like exposure. There was no reason for him to be here. No reason at all. He’d gone about this the wrong way. He’d got swept up in something fanciful. No, not fanciful, something boring.

Banal. Trite.

Being away from London was always dangerous, too. Things could be happening there, things he ought to know about, things he ought to do something about.

Oh, who was he kidding? He didn’t give a rat’s arse about London! Or anywhere else, for that matter. This place, really, it looked like a quaint miniature village beneath a Christmas tree, was as good or bad as any. And he wasn’t staying long, was he? The train was leaving, and he’d certainly be on it. In minutes, he’d been gone. In hours, he’d be somewhere else. And someone else, too. Everything would be different.

Business was business. And Seb—Moran, call him Moran, he reminded himself when he was on a job—was good for business, wasn’t he?

Of course, he was. How could it not be good for business to have the day of the bloody jackal on the payroll?

But it was clear to Jim that Sebastian Moran was also quickly becoming something more than just ‘good for business.’ Jim was beginning to, well, not to put too fine a point on it, care for him. Trust him, even. That meant that Moran was becoming a real vulnerability.

And vulnerabilities were always, always, _always_ exploitable liabilities. Jim knew that. He counted on it in others. Pressure points.

Time to go, then. Disappear.

But…

And that was when Jim saw him.

_Bloody hell, what was he doing here?_

This changed everything.

* * *

As the wheelchair lurched and dipped, Doctor Egon Hartz cursed under his breath; he wanted nothing more than to be back in his Bandrikan cottage. It wasn’t Marie’s fault. She was maneuvering the chair as best she could through the growing crowd, but the platform was riddled with gaps and holes and irregularities.

How he hated this!

Hartz had expected to spend the remainder of his life in seclusion. The cottage was easily guarded, easily forgotten, and more than enough for a household which was, essentially, himself and Marie.

He’d had enough of the world. He’d done his clawing and killing, his lying and grabbing. He’d made his money and his enemies, most of whom were no longer counted among the living.

And now he was old. And tired.

He ought to be enjoying peace and quiet far from everyone and everything.

But for Josephine.

Even villains—he had no illusions about his own villainy; he had been very good at being very bad—he supposed had sisters, beloved sisters who eventually succumbed to mortality in distant lands.

He knew Josephine was why he’d fallen in love with Marie. She reminded him so much of Josephine, a young Josephine, of course.

The same dark hair, bright eyes, pert nose. The same sweet smile. The same incredible loyalty. Really, how many times had various police forces interrogated Josephine? And she’d never said a word against him. Not once. Neither had Marie, who, in her own way, had had just as many opportunities.

And Marie, like Josephine, was not a bad shot.

The wheelchair stopped. Hartz reached for Marie as he got to his feet. In her arms, looking over her shoulder, he spotted them.

_Bloody hell, what were those two doing here?_

Trying to kill me, of course, thought Hartz.

They changed nothing.

* * *

Marie steered the wheelchair around a crater-sized depression in the concrete. Then she stopped, looking up and down the platform as the crowd swirled round them.

Something, or rather, someone caught Marie’s eye, but she didn’t stare. She didn’t even give the moving figure in profile a second glance.

“Doctor, we are to go that way, yes?”

“Yes, my dear.”

Marie steered the chair toward the front of the train.

She didn’t know if it was the same person or not. That day, it had been more than a year ago she realised, she’d only caught a glimpse of him.

Just seen him. Once. Not even spoken to him. She’d asked at the greengrocer’s, and they’d said he was a distant relation of the chemist’s, filling in while the latter was ill. It was a month before Marie was back in the village for supplies, and by that time, he was gone.

But he’d looked at her, that day, when she’d been picking up Egon’s medicines. He’d looked her in the eye, and she’d felt something. Or thought she had. Those dark eyes read her.

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t the same person.

And even if it was, nothing changed.


	2. Part 1: Chapter 2: On the Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Moran reflect on their present objectives and their past entanglements. Then, with one hindrance out of the way, Moran gets on with the job.

It hit Mycroft Holmes like a ton of bricks.

Not a ton, really, but bricks, yes, bricks falling directly onto the blond head bent over the last luggage cart in the queue.

Mycroft had been watching without seeming to be watching. He spotted the first brick as it flew from the open first-floor window of the adjacent shop. His mind calculated likely trajectory and target as more bricks followed.

He shouted in vain, then sprang.

Observers might’ve been surprised at the aged professor in tweeds leaping with the agility of the famed Bandrikan mountain goat.

Mycroft threw his arms around the man he’d known as Colonel Sebastian Moran and pivoted. The act hurled Moran out of the path of the falling bricks, but Mycroft lost his balance and went sprawling backwards onto the luggage himself.

The last of the bricks struck him on the crown of his head.

Momentarily stunned, Mycroft allowed strong arms to raise him. He looked up. Nothing. Then he was being ushering towards the smoking train.

“You needn’t have done that,” said a deep voice, one that ought not to have sparked a frisson in Mycroft Holmes. “Let’s go. Don’t want to miss our train.”

* * *

Mycroft Holmes.

Seb didn’t know if Holmes’s half-faint was real or artifice, but he suspected the latter. Nevertheless, he settled Holmes in the seat across from him. Then he explained to the other passengers in the compartment, in a mix of Bandrikan and English, that the old professor had suffered an accident just prior to boarding the train.

As Seb waited for Holmes to open his eyes, he cleaned the other’s wound with a handkerchief. He also contemplated his next move.

There was no doubt in Seb’s mind that Mycroft Holmes was here for the same reason he was: to kill Doctor Egon Hartz. The question was: should Seb let him?

If Seb was only considering his own feelings, the answer would be a resounding yes. Why should he exert himself when there was someone else willing to do the dirty work and take the risk?

But Seb wasn’t the one who wanted Hartz dead. What would the boss say?

There was an easy way of finding out. Seb could simply ask him, but just how to go about asking him was the problem.

Or should Seb even ask? A job was a job. Too, the satisfaction of knowing Hartz died by an extension of the boss’ hand rather than another’s might hold some value.

It was stupid for Seb to speculate how his employer’s mind worked. He would just have to ask.

Meanwhile, however, he was going to keep Mycroft Holmes under close surveillance.

Mycroft Holmes.

Seb crossed his arms over his chest.

He hadn’t seen Mycroft Holmes for a long time. Seeing him now resurrected questions that Seb preferred forgotten.

Had Holmes had been more than just a front-row spectator to the disgrace of Colonel Sebastian Moran? What role had he played in that nightmare? Back then, Seb had thought that Holmes respected him, liked him, even. And maybe he did. Who knew? Maybe he still did. They had crossed paths plenty of times on various operations before the scandal broke, but Holmes hadn’t raised a finger to prevent Seb from being the scapegoat of others’ perfidy. He hadn’t done anything, as far as Seb knew, to stop the bureaucratic machine from chewing Seb up and spitting him out of the only life he’d ever known and the only profession he’d ever been any good at.

The truth was that Seb had liked Holmes, too, before the end, but when the proverbial shit had hit the fan, Mycroft Holmes was nowhere to be found. He was just one of the many rats who had deserted Seb’s sinking ship.

In the bitter falling apart and slow putting himself back together, Seb had erased Mycroft Holmes from his mind.

Until now.

Even when Seb had known him, Holmes was easing out of field work, but for a nasty bit of goods like Hartz, Seb supposed, he come had out of retirement.

The spy who went back into the cold, Seb mused as Holmes’s eyelids fluttered.

* * *

“There, there, you’ll be all right in a minute. Your case, by the way, is up there.”

Mycroft nodded and followed Moran’s gesture to overhead rack. His gaze then wandered to the other passengers in the compartment. They were five, including himself and Moran. First, there was a mother and child. The mother resembled a large mass of porridge, but the child was remarkably handsome with dark eyes, close-cropped dark hair, and an impish smile. Mycroft gave the mother a nod and the child an avuncular smile. Across from those two sat a stern-looking older woman in Bandrika’s version of widow weeds. Mycroft nodded to her as well, and she returned the gesture.

It was remarkable, thought Mycroft, how train travel still brought people from disparate walks of life together for a fleeting time. In the window, the Alpine villages, with their snow-capped roofs and dark chimneys puffing smoke against a winter’s sky, galloped past, while the five of them, such an unlikely arrangement of individuals, watched the scenery and each other. So close in proximity, so available for scrutiny, and yet each also sunk in private thought or distraction.

Finally, Mycroft looked directly at Moran.

“Thank you for helping me. I’m quite all right now,” he lied. In fact, Mycroft’s head throbbed, but he’d never admit that to Moran.

“Thank you for saving me from that knock.”

Mycroft didn’t ask Moran why he was there. There could be only one reason that someone like Sebastian Moran was in Bandrika at this moment on this train.

Mycroft wasn’t surprised that Moran’s current employer was interested in the death of Hartz. The doctor had a knack for making grievous enemies and walking away richer and unscathed.

When Hartz had disappeared, he’d been forgotten, presumed dead, in official circles. Dust gathered on his file.

But Mycroft hadn’t forgotten. 

And Hartz had obviously got up to his usual tricks in unofficial circles sometime later.

Mycroft briefly toyed with the idea of proposing that he and Moran join forces. They wanted the same person dead, why not work together?

But, alas, no.

Mycroft would have to take full responsibility for whatever happened or didn’t happen to Hartz on this journey, and he couldn’t ally himself with Moran given with whom Moran was currently allying himself.

And just how close was that alliance, Mycroft wondered before dismissing that thought, too.

Mycroft had liked Moran once upon a time. He’d liked him far too much, in fact. Mycroft noted his own involuntary response to the man with some detachment and concluded that his regard—yes, even within his own mind Mycroft referred to it as ‘regard’ because he was, through and through, a pusillanimous and pretentious ass when it came to emotions—had not diminished. Mycroft found he still held Moran in high regard, even with the knowledge that Moran had gone to the ‘dark side.’

Mycroft could not fault Moran; after all, someone in possession of his narrow skill set only had so many avenues for gainful employment, but he wondered if James Moriarty valued loyalty as much, that is to say, as little as the British military had in Moran’s case.

Oh, Mycroft had been such a coward then!

Mycroft had not revealed the depth of his regard when the fiasco involving Moran had occurred. True, he didn’t have as much influence then as he did now, but any voluble defense of Moran would’ve raised eyebrows, eyebrows Mycroft did not want raised during that period.

Mycroft already had one very well-documented vulnerability. Sherlock was enough.

But Mycroft acknowledged that the end result of his silence was that he had turned his back on a good man and a great soldier. And now that good man and great soldier was working as a hired thug for an unprincipled psychopath. Lovely.

Mycroft’s temples throbbed, conveniently reminding him that he’d just taken a brick to the head for Sebastian Moran. Perhaps that made them even.

Hardly.

Really, this line of thought, and its many branches, was most unprofitable. Mycroft really needed to turn his mind back to the job at hand.

Mycroft’s aim of eliminating Hartz and returning to London as quickly as possible remained unchanged. The presence of Moran only meant that he had a competitor as well as adversary on the playing field.

What was Moran’s plan? Should Mycroft preempt it? Or foil it altogether?

Mycroft also needed to determine just what Moran had tampered with or removed from his valise.

So tedious.

No good deed went unpunished, he supposed. He should’ve let the bricks fall where they may!

Mycroft needed to think. There was only one thing for it.

“I require a good, strong cup of tea. I think I’ll go to the dining car.”

Moran smiled and unfolded his limbs in a manner that Mycroft found surprisingly graceful. “I’ll join you if you don’t mind. My treat, of course. Least I can do.”

Bloody hell, thought Mycroft, the last thing I want is more of your company, but he said, with well-honed diplomatic congeniality, “Please do.”

“It’s none of my business but if I were you, I’d get a bandage for that before we head down to the dining car,” said Seb, nodding at Mycroft’s head.

Mycroft raised his hand to his wound and immediately regretted it. He hissed at the pain.

“It’s not bleeding,” protested Mycroft.

“You mean it wasn’t. It is now. Oh, I know you: you’re the kind who just can’t help picking a scab.” He chuckled mirthlessly. Then he leaned forward, and his voice fell to a whisper that only Mycroft could hear. “Yeah, it’s nothing. Forget about it. I’m certain no one is going to have a problem with taking tea next to the old professor with the lacerated scalp. Nobody’s going to object to that. Nobody’s going to remember it.”

“Oh, very well. If you insist, ring for attendant and a first aid box.”

A few minutes later, Seb was pressing a clean, white bandage to Mycroft’s head and saying, “That’s much better."

* * *

Sebastian led the way down the narrow corridor as the train rattled along. He checked over his shoulder frequently to ensure that Mycroft Holmes was still following behind him.

He was, moving slowly and unsteadily, just like a doddering old professor with the recent head injury.

Really, Seb thought, trains were at the best of times, that is, the smoothest of journeys, a challenge to the average traveler’s equilibrium and, quite frankly, anathema to anything like grace. Mycroft didn’t look much better or worse than some of the other passengers who were making their way up and down the corridor, which was tight for one, let alone two, lanes of traffic.

When Seb wasn’t watching Mycroft, he was observing the rest of the train, the people as well as the environs, making mental notes, confirming, refuting, or amending what his various trial runs had told him. A job was a job. He’d taken a couple trial runs but this was the one that mattered.

At one point, Seb was turning back to check on Mycroft when the train gave a sharp lurch, and he was flung clumsily against a door of a compartment, which unlatched and swung open with the force of Seb’s impact. The compartment’s occupants, a tall man with a balding egg-shaped head and a beautiful, dark-haired woman, were startled. The man slammed the door shut and yanked the shade down.

“Must be honeymooners,” observed Seb dryly. “So shy.”

* * *

“That is interesting,” murmured Hartz as he watched two figures pass by the interior window of the compartment.

“What is interesting?” asked Marie. “That we’ve this compartment to ourselves? It shouldn’t be. I arranged it according to your specifications.”

“No, it is interesting that in terms of authors of my demise, I seem to be spoiled for choice.”

“Oh, dear.”

Hartz’s eyes were still on the window. “But why both?” he said vaguely.

“I’m sorry?”

Hartz finally turned to look at her.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran. Mycroft Holmes. Why are they both here? Marie, why does the lady of the house accompany a scullery maid?”

“To make certain the scrubbing gets done properly?” suggested Marie.

Hartz smiled and nodded. “Yes, that is it.”

“Which one?” She let the rest of her inquiry go unspoken.

Hartz considered, then said, “Moran. Then Holmes.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long while, exchanging silent glances of great import.

“Would you be so kind as to ring for an attendant for tea, my dear? And please tell Todhunter and,” his lips quirked in a smirk, “Mrs. Todhunter that I wish to take tea with them in this compartment.”

“As you wish,” she replied meekly.

* * *

Finally, Seb and Holmes arrived at the dining car and settled themselves at a table for two of Holmes’s choosing.

Mycroft tucked himself neatly into the chair and fussed about with his woolly scarves while Seb simultaneously slumped and sprawled, letting his legs flop into the aisle and hanging one arm on the back of the chair, which was decidedly not designed for such an entitled pose.

The only other passengers in the dining car were two men, British judging by their speech, who were absorbed in a discussion of a cricket match. They had arranged the sugar cubes as players in a play-by-play reenactment.

Seb seized the opportunity he’d wanted since the station and ordered a Bandrikan coffee. Holmes ordered tea.

I wonder if he thinks I’m going to try to poison him, mused Seb.

“I don’t believe we’ve introduced ourselves,” said Holmes. “I’m Idris Henderson, professor of music history.”

Of course, you are, thought Seb, trying not to smile. Right down to your tweedy tweeds.

“I’m going home to get married,” responded Seb with the attitude of bored arrogance he’d been cultivating. “Just had a long skiing weekend in Bandrika with the lads. Kind of stag party.”

“Congratulations,” said Holmes.

Seb gave a nod. He sat up straighter as their drinks arrived.

The next minute was consumed with the fiddling of cups and saucers and spoons.

“Sugar?” asked Seb.

“Yes, but, uh…”

“Oh, there isn’t any.” Seb looked up in the direction of the nearest attendant. “Um, excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t bother,” said Holmes, addressing the two at the other table. “Excuse me, sirs, might I trouble you for the sugar?”

“What?” asked one, an affronted expression wrinkling his impassive countenance.

“The sugar, please,” said Holmes with a deprecating smile and a slight inclination of his bandaged head.

The two passengers glared at Holmes as they returned the cubes, one-by-one, to the metal container and passed the entire container across the aisle.

“Thank you so much,” said Holmes.

Seb tried not burst out laughing at the looks of stony outrage on the two faces, and as soon as the pair had sunk back into their discussion, he cast an amused glance at Holmes, who appeared slightly, ever so slightly, relieved.

Does he think I’ve poisoned the sugar? Seb wondered. That I’m _going to_ poison the sugar? Does he imagine I’ve got a vial of the nameless, tasteless, traceless poison of detective fiction up my sleeve, two vials, one for him, one for Hartz, and that I am in possession of the sleight of hand to pull off a surreptitious dosing under his very nose?

I’m a sniper, for Christ’s sake, thought Seb. Not a magician. That’s not how we do it!

Seb stared at Holmes, who looked away with a nauseated expression. They remained like that for longer than seemed natural to Seb.

Seb was about to turn his attention to his coffee when Holmes finally spoke.

“I don’t believe you’ve told me your name.” It was a feeble attempt to diffuse the growing awkwardness made even weaker by the fact that Mycroft was scrutinising the contents of his cup as he stirred.

Is this still about the poison? Is he _looking for_ the poison? Seb asked himself as he looked out the window. He spotted a trio of curious green windmills which he recognised from his trial runs. He knew exactly where the train was, having committed the details of several maps to memory.

“No, I haven’t,” he replied. “It’s—”

He licked his lips slowly and held Mycroft’s gaze.

Wait for it.

The train whistle blew.

Seb spoke.

Holmes shook his head and brought a cupped hand to his ear.

Seb spoke louder.

Holmes shook his head, then shrugged.

Seb smiled and nodded at the window. Then he took his finger and drew in the condensation on the glass.

FROY

“Rhymes with joy,” Seb mouthed.

Mycroft nodded in dawning comprehension. He sipped his tea.

* * *

Marie had seen him again. Or thought she had.

Just a profile passing by the interior window.

Drawing the curtain would be have been safer, she thought, but Egon had demurred, saying that he liked to see what was coming.

Was it the same person, the relation of the village chemist? Marie asked herself again. Birdwatchers could sometimes instinctively recognise a representative of a species just by the curve of its wing or the slope of its back. Was Marie’s nagging feeling this instinct? Or just fantasy?

She wished that she could know for certain.

If she were wrong, it was nothing, but if she were right, it meant trouble. Coincidence did not exist. The universe was never so lazy.

But she couldn’t worry about strangers in chemist’s shops. She had work to do.

She hoped Anya was ready for the switch. Of course, she was. She was a better actress and a better box-jumper, meaning magician’s assistant, than Marie had ever been. She would do fine. Everyone at school had always teased them about being twins separated at birth, and now they had an opportunity to put their physical likeness to good use.

Anya.

Or, as she was calling herself at the moment, Mrs. Todhunter.

Marie doubted the lawyer would ever divorce his wife and marry Anya, but that was not Marie’s business. In Marie’s glass house, throwing a stone would be patently ridiculous. Anya thrived on drama. Marie abhorred it.

She was happy, Marie told herself, in the quiet little cottage.

She smiled at Egon, and he returned the smile.

She loved him, she reminded herself. She owed her life to him.

* * *

The tea really did wonders for Holmes, thought Seb. He’d plunged into his role of nattering professor with gusto.

“Have you noticed, Mister Froy,” he asked chattily as they made their way back to their compartment, “the lovely wooden panels?”

“No, not really.” Seb had, in fact, made a detailed inventory of them, but that didn’t mean he had any aesthetic appreciation for them or knew anything about their origins.

“Original Art Deco, if I’m not mistaken, but of course, it’s not at all my era of expertise. Not even close!” He laughed. “Each depicting a different flower. Look at that poppy. And forget-me-nots! So pretty! Here we are. Ours is the hollyhock, I remember. Though I could’ve sworn that we were the second from the end, not the third, but, oh, I must be mistaken for here are our traveling companions. Greetings!”

The women smiled and nodded at Seb and Holmes. The child had fallen asleep, his head in his mother’s lap.

“I think I shall read,” said Holmes, reaching for his valise.

“Yeah, with your head, you probably don’t want to go sleep. You might have a concussion.”

“That would be most unfortunate, wouldn’t it?”

Holmes sat. He put the battered leather case on his lap and opened it. When he raised the top, his face was hidden from Seb’s view.

I haven’t fouled your things, Mister Holmes, thought Seb. Just like I didn’t poison your tea or your sugar.

Holmes shot a puzzled look over the top of the valise that confirmed Seb’s unspoken declaration of innocence, then he returned to his rummaging.

Meanwhile, Seb slumped in the seat. He bent his arms at the elbow and put his hands behind his head.

He and Holmes might have been friends once. Lovers, too. Seb was gripped by an uncomfortable pang of ‘what might have been’ as he admired the old-fashioned stickers on Holmes’s case.

Holmes closed the case. “On second thought, maybe not.” He returned his luggage to the overhead rack and sat. He turned his head toward the window.

“Pretty country. Like a Christmas card.”

Seb pretended to doze as he watched Holmes.

One bob of Holmes’s head. One stare.

Seb wondered if the eyes that fixed him betrayed any involuntary trace of sudden revelation, but his farce of sleeping gave him a cropped field of vision.

Gotcha.

Seb wanted to smile. He also had the fleeting desire to lean forward and say something villain-like.

Nighty-night, Mister Holmes.

Or something more substantive. Something along the lines of ‘I did not need to poison your tea or your sugar because I knew damned well that someone was going to do it for me. Colourless, tasteless, traceless is in management’s purview. I just shoot people. From very long distances and in very uncomfortable positions.’

This time, Seb knew for certain Holmes’s unconsciousness was not an act.

* * *

Passengers might have been surprised to learn that the compartment marked both ‘lavatory’ and ‘not in service’ was not, in fact, a not-in-service lavatory. It was, however, pitch black and only large enough to accommodate Seb and a spider if that spider wanted to stand extremely close to Seb and whisper in Seb’s ear. Which it did.

_Better?_

_Yeah, thanks._

_Not a problem. Stupid Iceman._

_How’d you do the tea?_

_Not tea. Bandage._

_Christ, you’re a genius. Why are you here? Checking up on me so things don’t go tits up like the last job? Or am I getting the sack quite literally and in person?_

_Don’t be daft._

_Are you here for Holmes?_

_Bugger Holmes. And not the fun way._

_Job’s still on then?_

_Yes._

_Good. I’m going to vanish immediately after._

_Of course. Meet you?_

_Hell yeah. Bring some Bandrikan coffee._

Seb felt curling fingers and a violent yanking of the clothing at his neck which was followed by a stranger sensation. It took him a moment to place it.

A moving pen.

What in the hell could he possibly be writing on me? Seb wondered, but before he could utter a word, lips were pressed, quick and hard, to his.

All noise was drowned in the rattling and rumbling of the train. Nevertheless, Seb felt a faint vibration which he knew was sliding wood.

It all happened so quickly, Seb might have imagined it, but then he was alone again.

All right. Time to go to work, he thought.

Seb stripped down to what he liked to call his uniform. Then he twisted and removed a panel in the wall. Even blind, his fingers found the pieces that he had stored earlier and began to assemble them. When he was done, he filled the gap behind the panel with his discarded clothes.

He checked and re-checked everything. Thrice.

Finally, he looked overhead and began to remove the screws in the ceiling panel.


	3. Part 1: Chapter 3: Mycroft's Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Mycroft going mad? Or did the sniper vanish?

Mycroft woke in a self-loathing panic that he immediately endeavoured to conceal.

What a bloody fool he was!

Moran had drugged him and given him the slip. No doubt Hartz was already dead. Mycroft’s whole assignment had proved a failure.

Mycroft dreaded his return to London. It was one thing to abhor legwork, it was another to be too incompetent for it!

At least he was still alive and on the train.

The widow and the mother and child were, too. The widow was engrossed in a quaint periodical called, _The Needlewoman_. The child was still asleep, and the mother was staring out of the window.

Sometime during Mycroft’s drugged stupor, it had begun to snow heavily.

For wont of anything better, Mycroft addressed the two women in Bandrikan.

“Excuse me, did you see which way the Englishman went?”

The women stared at Mycroft, then frowned. He repeated the question in English and then in German.

The widow gave a derisive huff, but the mother spoke slowly, indulgently, as if to her child,

“Herr professor is the only man who has been in the compartment.”

Mycroft frowned and looked at the widow who nodded and addressed the printed page before her. “Just so.”

“My companion, the Englishman, Mister Froy,” Mycroft waved at the empty seat directly in front of him. “He was here, right here. Where did he go?”

“You are mistaken,” declared the widow haughtily.

“I went to the dining car and had tea with him,” protested Mycroft.

“You came and went alone. It has been only yourself!”

“Herr professor has hit his head, yes?” interjected the mother softly. “Perhaps, confused?” She smiled and said, “Rest.” She tilted her head in a traditional Bandrikan gesture and repeated the word. “Rest.”

“Rest?” Mycroft raised a hand to his head; his fingers touched the bandage.

They were lying, of course. He had not conjured an ex-serviceman, current-mercenary sniper out of thin air! But Mycroft realised it was foolish to argue further. He smiled and nodded and got to his feet. He reached for his case and opened it.

His belongings were gone, and in their place was a silly souvenir snow globe of Bandrika.

Damn it! He’d never arrange for a field job again. He patted his sides and was slightly reassured. Thank goodness Moran hadn’t stripped him of everything!

Mycroft closed his case and gave courteous nods to his travelling companion. The mother returned the nod, but the widow, Mycroft noted, was too absorbed to notice.

Mycroft stepped into the corridor expecting to see chaos emanating from Hartz’s death, but he was disappointed.

Everything was normal. Though not a luxury sleeper, the train was still a handsome specimen. Polished wood, polished brass, starched linen, sparkling glass, and plenty of droning staff to keep things that way. Mycroft approved.

But he was puzzled, too.

Surely, the body had been found by now. There ought to be a commotion. A hushed commotion, perhaps, but still some disturbance.

Mycroft made his way towards the dining car, but when he passed Hartz’s compartment, he got a jolt.

Hartz was still alive!

Hartz was calmly sitting in his seat, reading a book, turning a page, even. Looking through the interior window, Mycroft permitted himself a dangerously long glance to make certain it was really and truly Hartz and not an imposter, an actor, or simply someone else.

That was when the train lurched, and Mycroft was thrown hard against the door of the opposite compartment, which slid open.

“Damn it! It’s that bloody latch! The slightest nudge! Are we to have interruptions the whole journey? I’m going to speak someone!”

“Calm yourself, my dear.”

It was the man with the egg-shaped head and his companion.

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you further,” began Mycroft, “but have you seen an Englishman, the one who came by earlier and called you, uh,” he pretended to blush, “honeymooners.”

“You made that ridiculous comment, you buffoon! You were alone, as I expect you are—"

“That’s enough, dear.”

The door was shut in Mycroft’s face. Mycroft turned his head and confirmed again.

Yes, Hartz was alive. He stepped forward and saw the other side of the compartment. Marie was alive, too.

Moran hadn’t shot Hartz, then. Not yet. Or perhaps that wasn’t the plan after all? Was he to be stabbed?

Mycroft made his way farther down the corridor and considered the possibility that Moran had set a detonation device on the train. James Moriarty was more than capable of collateral carnage on a large scale, but then why send Moran at all? You didn’t dispatch a surgeon when a butcher would do. Perhaps Moran had branched out to explosives.

In the corridor, Mycroft met the two Englishmen who’d been in the dining car when he and Moran had been there. He had the vague notion that he’d seen them before, but then they looked so much like stock characters in an ITV drama, he dismissed the notion.

The two men stepped into the threshold of a compartment, and the first made a motion indicating that Mycroft pass. To their obvious annoyance, Mycroft stopped and asked a question instead.

“Excuse me, have either of you seen my companion, the one with whom I was drinking tea in the dining car earlier? The Englishman?”

They stared at Mycroft blankly, then shook their heads.

“You haven’t seen him?” asked Mycroft. “Or you don’t remember him?”

“We were engaged in a discuss of cricket! Just as we are now!” spat the second. “Please, sir!” He made a curt motion with his hand.

“I don’t see how a thing like cricket can make you forget seeing someone!”

“’A thing like cricket!’” cried the first. “’A thing like cricket!’” echoed the second.

Really, they were ridiculous!

Mycroft rolled his eyes and passed on.

When Mycroft reached the dining car it was empty save for one uniformed attendant sat at a table, counting receipts.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” said Mycroft, “but earlier, I was here with an Englishman. He had coffee, I had tea. I don’t think it was you who attended us, but it was,” Mycroft glanced at the clock on the wall and blanched. “About an hour ago. He paid for the coffee and tea. He signed the bill. Do you have a copy? My name is Henderson, but his was Froy. We sat over there, at that table.”

Mycroft turned as he said this, looking toward the table in question.

“I fear Herr professor is mistaken. Though it was not I who attended you, I can say with certainty Herr professor was alone. Look. Here is the bill.”

Mycroft turned back. He stared, then blinked at the scrap of paper the attendant held up.

It was a bill for one pot of tea, and it was signed, and signed quite correctly, Idris Henderson.

It was too much, thought Mycroft. His head throbbed and felt dizzy. He stepped away from the attendant, who rose to his feet.

“Herr professor is not well. Shall I ring for a doctor?”

Mycroft shook his head. He turned and staggered towards the table for two by the window. He stood, looking from one chair to the other.

We sat here, he told himself. Didn’t we? Yes, of course, we did. Less than an hour ago.

They couldn’t all be in it! The whole bloody train? This was just a bad dream. It was an Agatha Christie novel. Or an Alfred Hitchcock film.

Mycroft raised his head and suddenly remembered Moran’s finger drawing on the glass. He leaned forward and puffed air, fogging the pane.

“See?” he called over his shoulder. “He wrote his name. FROY. See…”

Mycroft’s voice died as the letters formed.

FUCK YOU!

“Oh, no,” muttered the attendant gruffly. “Uh, you! Steward! Yes, you! Come here and clean this window at once! I’m terribly sorry. Most unfortunate, Herr professor. Must be children or Americans or something. Most unseemly. One moment.”

Mycroft shook his head but was unable to move his feet.

What in the bloody hell was going on?

“Excuse me, Herr professor?” said a quiet voice.

Mycroft turned to face the steward. In the black-and-gold uniform and cap, he looked like every other steward, porter, and miscellaneous employee of the train company. He also appeared at least a decade younger than Mycroft knew him to be.

Mycroft took a clumsy step backwards, and James Moriarty, holding the rag and spray bottle, dutifully went to work cleaning the window, whistling a jaunty tune.


	4. Part 1: Chapter 4: A Plan Revised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft decides what he's going to do next.

Mycroft wanted nothing more than to sit and think. After mumbled apologies to the attendant and the disguised criminal mastermind, he left the dining car and headed, for wont of anywhere else to go, back to the compartment. He turned his head briefly to confirm, yes, Doctor Egon Hartz was still alive. And the train hadn’t yet been blown to bits. Or run off the track, he amended, with some disappointment.

When Mycroft reached the compartment, that of the wooden panel of hollyhocks, he noticed that the whole blessed thing had moved once again, back to the second from the end.

Had he been wrong before, when he and Moran had returned from the dining car, to think that it had moved? Or was he wrong now?

We’re all mad here, he thought.

This Alice-in-Wonderland treatment was all James Moriarty’s doing, Mycroft knew. Sebastian Moran didn’t dabble in nonsense except under orders. This, however, pointless annoyance disguised as silly sleight-of-hand was one of Moriarty’s specialties.

Mycroft opened the door on the oddly reassuring sight of his three traveling companions, the widow and the mother and child. The child was awake now, happily munching biscuits.

Mycroft sat, desperately wishing he could change places with the lad. Oh, to just watch the snow and nibble!

It was the disappearance of Moran combined with the still-living Hartz which gave him pause.

If Hartz were dead, then the disappearance of Moran was easily explained.

But perhaps Moran was hiding somewhere on the train still waiting for his shot?

But if so, why did no one remember him? Mycroft’s first thought was the collective amnesia was more of Moriarty’s trickery, that he’d paid or somehow convinced everyone to lie about Moran’s presence, but if so, that raised another question.

Why was Moriarty on the train at all? It wasn’t his habit to be so close to the job. According to Mycroft’s intel, he rarely left London. The puppeteer liked long strings.

Had Moriarty himself been responsible for Moran’s disappearance? Had he simply called Moran off for some reason? There’d been no scheduled stops since the train had left Bandrika. Moran would have had to drop off, but surely Moriarty would’ve dropped off, too, unless he were planning to take over the job himself.

But why? Why would he change his mind and take it on himself?

Or was the matter something far more sinister? But, no, even a criminal mastermind psychopath wanting to scratch a sniper from his payroll didn’t do so _before_ said sniper eliminated the target. That was stupid, costly, and wasteful and Moriarty wasn’t stupid, far from it.

Mycroft sighed. What he needed to do was forget about other people’s plans and focus on his own!

Hartz was alive. He needed to _not_ be alive. And that was that.

Mycroft stood and checked his case. It was still empty save for the snow globe.

Was that the bomb? Surely not!

Mycroft quickly reformulated his plan. He realised he would need his trunk after all. He’d go to the luggage compartment and get on with the job.

Just then, Mycroft yawned, which reminded him of another blunder on his part.

How on earth had he been drugged? It hadn’t been the tea he was certain. He hadn’t felt any prick of a needle. It wasn’t in the air.

He brought his hand to his head and touched the bandage.

Of course!

He ripped the bandage from his head to the gasp of one of his traveling companions, probably the mother. Upon close inspection, he could distinguish the almost transparent circle nestled in the white gauze.

Mycroft shoved the bandage in his pocket and left the compartment without another word.

* * *

Egon Hartz fairly thrummed with satisfaction. He was pretending to read, but in reality, he was simply savouring the moment. At last, he could no longer contain himself.

“Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?” he murmured.

“I’m sorry?” asked Marie.

“Nothing, my dear.”

Marie.

She was one in a million.

She was beautiful. And sweet. And she’d flummoxed one of the cleverest men in Britain, reduced him to ogling at windows like a child outside a sweet shop.

Knight takes knight. Your move, Holmes.

It was more than worth the minor discomfort of enduring Todhunter’s simpering, sycophantic prattle over some exceptionally good tea.

Hartz had had reservations about Anya, but Marie had been right. She’d played her part admirably and given Marie an impeccable alibi on the rare chance there should there be any official questions into the fate of an English serviceman far from home.

But there wouldn’t be any questions. The poor chap had simply vanished.

When a man enjoyed darkness and emptiness as much as the late Colonel Sebastian Moran must have, given his profession, well, it was inevitable that the emptiness, the darkness should, in the end, swallow him up.

Only natural, really.

* * *

Mycroft did not risk a third glance at Hartz. He continued on his way, passing into, and out of, the second-class carriages.

This looked like a supply service for old-fashioned trunk murderers, Mycroft thought, as he surveyed the racks and racks of suitcases and crates and boxes. It was cold, too. If someone had murdered Moran and hidden him in one of these, the body might not be found for a while.

The ubiquitous rumbling of the train was the only noise as Mycroft did a preliminary sweep of the car, but no sooner had his search for signs of Moran, really, signs of Moran’s body, begun in earnest, than he was distracted.

Oh, would you look at that! he almost said aloud.

A magician’s trunk was standing upright at the end of a row.

Mycroft studied the trunk at a distance, then gave into the temptation and went to it, opening the door, drawing back the curtain, and examining the interior. It was an extremely large representative of its species. He wondered if it had been custom built for a tall performer.

Mycroft started.

Someone was coming!

It was the work of a moment to slip into the magician’s trunk and pull the curtain and door closed.

Mycroft held his breath.

Footsteps. And a voice.

“Moran, I swear to God I’m going to fillet you. Hide-and-seek is not funny.”

“Good Lord,” exclaimed Mycroft when the curtain had been jerked aside and dark, angry eyes were boring into his. “ _You don’t know where he is!_ ”


	5. Part 1: Chapter 5: Decisions, decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim changes his mind and settles it. 
> 
> This is the end of Part 1. I am currently writing Part 2 and I plan to post by the end of this month (June). I hope you've enjoyed it so far.

_“You don’t know where he is!”_

Curiously enough, it was that ejaculation, from Mycroft Holmes of all people, which decided Jim.

Finding Seb _was_ more important than killing Hartz.

Seb, not Moran.

Jim had also decided in that moment, really, it’d been a busy moment for resolutions, that he was going to call his sniper Seb, or Sebby or Seb-a-ding-dong or something equally ridiculous, and not Moran, for the rest of his days, however few or many or in hindsight those might be.

For the past half hour, Jim had been torn, torn to the point of inertia, changing his mind, then changing it back every other second.

He wanted Hartz dead! He wanted Seb dead! He wanted Mycroft Holmes dead! He wanted the whole bloody train dead!

The minutes had ticked by, and no shot was heard in the train.

No shot. There ought to have been a shot. Where was the shot?

Jim went about his work with ears straining, listening to glass which never cracked, hearing instead Seb’s words, words from what seemed like an eternity ago.

_The first shot is the best, five klicks before the Doppo pass, but I have two more immediately after that. If the third shot isn’t good, I’ll fall back and wait._

The time had passed, and Hartz remained very much alive.

If Hartz was still alive, it meant that Seb had fallen back. Seb wouldn’t abandon a job, would he?

Doubt twisted Jim’s guts. Had he, at long last, let his guard down only to be played for a sucker?

Perhaps, but for what gain?

Seb had got a fortnight’s skiing holiday out of it, but he’d not yet gotten paid for the job itself, which was the big money.

_I’m going to vanish immediately after._

After.

After, after, after.

Not before.

Seb had vanished _before_ finishing the job.

Jim ought to trust that Seb knew what he was doing. He was a consummate professional, after all. Contingencies upon contingencies. This was the fifth job that Seb had undertaken for him, and by far the most elaborate one to-date, but Seb had never shown any signs of slipshod performance in the previous. He’d never showed any signs of disloyalty, either. On the contrary, the last job, the one with the Andrews gang, Seb had taken a royal beating and not breathed a word when others (others Jim could name, not living, of course, but still) would’ve betrayed him.

So, Seb had not taken the shot, therefore, Seb had fallen back, but where?

Where was he?

Jim had urged himself to be patient, but waiting had never, ever been his style.

And, so, he’d gone looking for Seb.

In the beginning, it had just been searching masked by the usual run of things, but by the end of it, Jim had made a thorough search of the whole of the train. First, he’d popped his head out to see if Seb were lying on top of the train. The snow and the preponderance of tunnels meant Jim hadn’t been able to do as complete an examination as he would’ve liked, but he certainly hadn’t spotted a sniper-sized body, alive or otherwise, clinging to the roof or the sides of one of the carriages. He’d then looked between carriages, in the occupied cars, in the vacant cars, like the two he kept switching to take the piss out of Holmes, the lavatories and the service cars. The whole lot.

No sniper anywhere.

Jim had already begun to erase the signs that Seb had even been on the train in anticipation of his abrupt departure after, after, _after_ he’d shot Hartz.

But Hartz was still alive. And that was the rub.

Finally, Jim had decided to search the luggage cars. They were certainly large enough to conceal a full-grown sniper.

And an Iceman, apparently.

* * *

“You didn’t kill him,” said Jim, stepping back to let Holmes exit the magician’s trunk.

“Of course not, but it’s interesting that you didn’t either. You can’t find him. Your plans have gone awry.”

“Only Plan A.” Jim shrugged and moved around Holmes towards the rear of the car.

Looking, looking, looking.

Holmes, the bastard, followed Jim, giving posh voice to Jim’s fear.

“Then he’s either met with an accident or left of his own accord.”

“Or someone else’s done him in,” muttered Jim. “Or he’s hiding here. There’s a second car for the temperature-controlled freight.”

Jim walked to the rear of the car and slid the heavy door aside.

Upon crossing into the next car, Jim and Holmes rushed side-by-side towards the enormous wicker basket which was tied with jute and rocking.

Jim untied the rope. Holmes threw back the lid.

A calf.

A pink-and-tan calf looking at them with saucer-like eyes.

It was too absurd.

Jim gave a mirthful snort.

Holmes did, too. He petted the creature and closed the lid.

“Not a sniper.”

“No.”

“So, have you tired of gaslighting me? Run out of funds after paying dozens of people? Gotten bored with falsifying receipts and writing naughty words on windowpanes?”

Jim huffed. “’Dozens’ is a gross exaggeration. Todhunter is wound tighter than a Jesuit screw, and Charters and Caldicott are your own doing.”

“Todhunter?” Holmes blinked like an owl. “Hartz brought his solicitor on the train with him?”

Jim tut-tutted. “You didn’t recognise him?”

“No one’s ever seen him.”

“That not true, either. It’s just no one who has seen him knows what they’re looking at. Except me, of course.”

Jim didn’t have time for this. He needed to find Seb.

“And that was Basil Charters?” continued Holmes, following him, and, Jim had to admit, doing his part to search.

“Yeah, still sore that you didn’t let him into your quiet boys’ clubhouse.” Jim chuckled. “Christ, we’re all fucking up this one, aren’t we? But I don’t think Charters and his boyfriend killed Seb,” he tilted his head and added, “not unless Seb insulted Raffles or something.”

“Marie could.”

“Yeah, but she didn’t leave the compartment.”

Or did she?

Doubt, once again, gnawed at Jim, but this was not anxiety about Seb’s fate, this was something specific.

“He’s not here,” said Holmes. “I’m going to talk to Charters.”

* * *

_“I shall ask the board to reconsider your application.”_

_“And Caldicott’s?”_

_“Of course. You’re a set, aren’t you?”_

_“That’s big of you. Sorry about earlier. To be frank I haven’t seen the fellow. Neither has Caldicott. Have you?”_

_“No, no, not seen him.”_

_“Well, a pleasant journey to you both.”_

_“Thank you.”_

Jim was cleaning a stained cushion in the adjacent compartment and listening. He didn’t abandon his task when he heard the door slide. A few moments passed, and his patience was rewarded.

_“Holmes is an ass.”_

_“He’s always been that way, Basil. Even at school.”_

_“I expect so.”_

_“I wonder if he’ll do what he says he’s going to do: get us in the Antidiogenes Club.”_

_“Probably.”_

_“I also wonder what happened to the fellow he was looking for.”_

_“Now don’t start.”_

_“I saw it, Basil. I was sitting right here. Before the first tunnel.”_

_“You saw something, I’ll grant you, but bodies don’t roll off the top of trains. It just doesn’t happen. And it has nothing to do Holmes’s boyfriend. Or whoever he is.”_

_“Knowing Holmes, the fellow was probably his Number Three Valet.”_

_“And Second Thursday of the Month Knob-warmer.”_

_“True. But why not, Basil? Why couldn’t it have been Holmes’s, ahem, colleague?”_

_“Why would anyone climb on top of a train while it’s moving in the snow?”_

_“It wasn’t snowing then. Not yet. And I don’t know! But maybe he did and fell off. Or was pushed!”_

_“If you’re so certain of this, why didn’t you mention it to Holmes just now?”_

_“Holmes is an ass. Wouldn’t have been cricket.”_

* * *

It was him.

She was certain.

She was certain that it was him and that he was there to kill Egon. And given that she’d seen him in the village over a year ago, he’d been planning to kill Egon for some time.

Were all three of them working together? Marie didn’t know. Were there more killers on the train? Marie suspected so.

She felt concerned eyes on her.

It was no use lying. “I’m worried,” she said. “I’m going to the loo. I’ll ask Anya and Todhunter to come and sit with you while I’m gone.”

“All right.” His expression was thoughtful, but he didn’t ask any questions.

Marie slipped her feet out of black ballet flats and into sturdy boots. She bent to tie the lace.

That was one thing Anya wouldn’t do. She’d impersonate Marie from head to ankle, but foot? Only when it was absolutely necessary. She loved her pretty shoes much too much.

Marie stepped out feeling more on edge, more hunted, than ever before.

She kept all her movements relaxed, save her eyes, which darted nervously as she made her way along the corridor.

Let’s get on with it, she thought, as she reached the women’s lavatory.

* * *

Marie shut the door of the lavatory and clicked the lock. The panel to her right moved.

Dark eyes. Dark hair.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m no one. I want an exchange.” He held up two vials.

She frowned. “What are those?”

“My plan C. Plans A and B are, lamentably, thanks to you, out of commission. The red capped one makes you sick,” he explained, his voice was soft and round. “The blue capped one makes you dead. Both colorless, tasteless, traceless, etcetera.”

“Why would I want those?”

He shrugged.

“What do you want,” she hesitated, “for them?”

“I want you to tell me what happened to him.”

“And then what? You’ll shoot me?”

“I don’t like guns.”

She snorted. “Your friend didn’t mind them.”

Dark eyes bore into her. “Neither of us has time for this, Marie.”

She was under his spell, she knew that, but she also didn’t like people who played games.

“I shot him. He fell.”

“Where?”

“About five kilometres before the Doppo pass.”

“You shot him in the head?”

“No, shoulder and back. Maybe arm, too.”

“Did he fall off the right or left side of the train?”

“Right.”

He handed her the vials. “When this is all over, come and see me in London. I’m always looking for new talent.”

The interview was over, and that disappointed Marie in ways she didn’t want to contemplate.

“And the other one?” she asked hastily. “The dotty professor? He’s yours, too?”

“Christ, no. He’s an ass.”

“Why?” She left the rest of the question unspoken. Why are you doing this to me? Why haven’t you killed me?

“Because you look like my sister.”

And then he was gone. And the panel was as it had been.

Marie stared at the vials in her hand.

* * *

It was funny how things changed.

Only a few hours ago, it had been vital to Jim to settle the score with Hartz, but now he couldn’t care less what happened to the bastard.

It had been fun, taking the piss of Mycroft Holmes, but then taking the piss of Mycroft Holmes had become a dangerous waste of time.

There might be time in the future to kill Doctor Egon Hartz, to kill Marie, hell, to kill Mycroft Holmes if Jim wanted, but, but all Jim wanted, all he really wanted, was to find Seb.

Nothing else mattered.

He had some information, but he needed more about where Seb had fallen. Maybe his body had already been found. Maybe he was in hospital.

Jim didn’t know, but he was going to know very soon. He wouldn’t stop until he did.

And to think he’d come all the way to Bandrika not to figure in the job, but just to be around so that he could persuade Seb to come away with him after the job was over. He wanted to surprise Seb with a holiday, a holiday where they could be together without the world interfering. He’d booked the cottage. He was just waiting for Hartz to be dead. 

Part of Jim was terrified that he’d lost Seb before he’d even really found him, but that part was kept hidden away in a dark corner of Jim’s mind. He ignored it.

Most of Jim was enjoying the feel of a good suit. He was back in his preferred armour once more. Not one of the stewards had recognised him as a successful businessman.

Jim turned the collar of his Burberry up as he stepped off the train.

“Excuse me, Professor.”

Jim felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned.

Mycroft Holmes was offering him something.

“I believe you forgot this.”

“Thank you.” Jim took it. It was the snow globe he’d put in Holmes’s case. “May you have a fruitful journey, Professor Henderson.”

“I intend to, but I rather wish I was going with you, to be honest. Best of luck. I sincerely hope you find what you’re looking for. And if I can be of service in that endeavour, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

The words were spoken with unabashed honesty. Jim’s reply was not.

“Sorry about the brick. Just couldn’t resist.”

Then Jim turned and deliberately vanished into the crowd on the platform.


	6. Part 2: Chapter 6: Lost & Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving the train behind, Jim goes looking for his sniper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setting and the many of the extra characters are taken from Agatha Christie's _4:50 from Paddington_. Bingley is a Bandrian shepherd, a fictional breed of dog which is based on the [Greater Swiss Mountain Dog](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greater_Swiss_Mountain_Dog).

Darkness.

In the darkness, there was a pale, heart-shaped face with dark eyes framed by a curtain of dark, straight hair.

In the darkness, there was a furry muzzle, too, set below another set of eyes.

“Who are you?” he heard a voice ask.

He only realised by the reply that it was he himself who had posed the question.

“I am Alexandra Crackenthorpe-Easterly. And this is Bingley.” There was a soft woof. “Who are you?”

_Who am I?_

He searched the cavern of his mind and found it empty.

Empty and dark.

He sank back onto something soft and sweet-smelling, and the emptiness, arm-in-arm with the darkness, pulled him back under.

* * *

“I’ll admit that didn’t go quite as I expected, Bingley.”

Alexandra scratched the dog behind his ears as Bingley softly woofed his agreement and thumped his tail for good measure.

By breed, Bingley was a Bandrikan shepherd, strong and smart, large of build and thick of bone, with a short-hair coat, mostly black with rings of tan around his eyes and ankles, a white stripe down his muzzle, and white paws.

Two oil lamps were lit, but Alexandra also employed a torch to study the bandages on the man’s shoulder and arm, comparing them favourably to illustrations in her _Girl Guide’s First Responder Handbook_ and a dogeared page of a moth-eaten volume entitled _Survival in the Bush_ , which she’d pilfered from her grandfather’s library.

Alexandra frowned when she moved onto the wound to the man’s head. She pressed a thermometer to his forehead for a few seconds and pronounced,

“Not feverish.”

Then she took up a rusty stethoscope and listened to the man’s chest, then she looked at her watch. “I suppose we should make an appearance at supper, Bingley, but as soon as it’s safe we’ll come back and keep an eye on him.” She eyed the bottle of water she’d set by the makeshift bed of hay. “In the morning, we can see about some tea and,” she tapped her lips and added with slight misgiving, “gruel.”

Bingley whined his uncertainty about the soundness of this plan and then sniffed and thumped his tail at the prospect of supper.

Alexandra tucked the blankets around the stranger and stoked the fire in the stove. Then she put on her coat and took up her satchel, and she and Bingley abandoned the warmth of long barn for the cold, snowy trudge to the main house.

“I know I should tell Aunt Em, but really, it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened, ever! Rescuing a stranger! I’m definitely going to get my First Aid badge for this. Unless, of course, he dies, and then I don’t suppose I’ll get any badges at all. But his pulse was good. His breathing, too. It’s just that knock on his head.”

Bingley snorted.

“Just think, Bingley, we’ve rescued a stranger! A stranger in peril, lying prostrate in the snow! Very romantic, that. Thank you for your service, in that, by the way. I certainly couldn’t have pulled the sled by myself. But I told you, and I was right, that if the Egyptians could build pyramids then you and I could get that solid stone block of a stranger to the safety of the long barn. It wasn’t easy, of course, him being practically dead weight. Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t call him that! A stranger in a stranger land. And how strange he is! Did you see his arm? I mean, his other arm. The tattoo of a tiger.”

Bingley barked his disapprobation of all of the feline race, inked and otherwise.

“And the writing on his other side, by his neck. It washed off when I did his bandages, but I copied it down,” she patted her notebook through the canvas of her satchel, “Maybe he’s a spy and what was written on his chest was a secret code. Do you think he’s a spy, Bingley? I suppose he might be. But does Bandrika even have spies? I doubt it. I wonder how he came to be at the bottom of the embankment. Do you think he fell off the train? He must’ve. But here’s a question. Did he jump? Or was he pushed?”

As if on cue, a long, mournful whistle was followed by the clamorous thunder of the tracks; by long practised habit, Alexandra remained silent until the train had rounded the steep bend.

“Perhaps he’s a villain.” Alexandra did not sound nearly as apprehensive as she might have at this last prospect.

“But, really, Bingley, this is so terribly exciting, and the holidays have been so dreary. Aunt Em is a dear, and she does her best, but with Lucy away nursing her ailing aunt, Aunt Em has to do everything herself. Well, almost everything. There’s Mrs. Kidder in the mornings and Mrs. Hart thrice weekly to ‘do the brasses,’ whatever that is. Mostly tea and gossip as far as I can tell. So, with all of Lucy’s work as well as taking care of Grandfather, that old curmudgeon, miser and hypochondriac, to boot, poor Aunt Em doesn’t have time to even smile at Doctor Quimper’s hopeless flirting anymore. And there’s no one else. And that means these holidays have been ghastly. Until now. Something has finally happened!”

Bingley woofed indignantly.

“No offense, old thing. You and I always have each other, no matter what,” said Alexandra, patting the dog affectionately. “I suppose I should tell Aunt Em about him. I will tell her. I will. Oh, aren’t I glad that you and I took over that musty old long barn and made it our own? It had been only a mausoleum of the ugliest family heirlooms ever known, the treasures that great-grandfather collected ages ago on his grand world tour. Really, I do think he picked the most hideous _objet d’art_ from every place he went. And now the long barn is not just ours, it’s also a cosy field hospital. Oh, we are late, aren’t we? Grandfather will be cross. C’mon. I’ll race you.”

* * *

It took all of Jim’s not inconsiderable supply of reserve to keep his hands, his face, his posture, his speech, his whole being, from betraying the war in his mind as he sat on the barstool and sipped his ale. The conflict within was about to bubble over, to spill out, to cause a scene.

It came down to one question.

_Should he stay or should he go?_

After shedding the skin of a train steward and donning that of a nondescript tourist, he’d dropped off the train at the last station before the Swiss border and found a quiet café.

He pulled up maps of the train route on a tablet. He then began to do the maths and compare his results with the geography. The first question was a simple one:

If Marie had shot Seb when and where she said she had, then where would he have fallen?

He imagined where Seb would have lain himself on top of the train, where Marie would’ve put herself in relation Seb, the gun she would use. The speed of the train. Seb’s weight and height. The force. The moment.

BANG! BANG!

Jim found the spot. There was a sizable curve in the track. He pulled up terrain maps and studied them. There was a high embankment on one side, the side to which Seb would mostly likely have fallen.

It was a rural area, even by Bandrikan standards. The train seemed to encircle half of a property, undeveloped area, woods, he supposed, and, he tilted his head and zoomed in closer, an estate house.

The closest village was a place called…

“Brackhampton?” That didn’t sound Bandrikan at all. Jim googled it, and his eyebrows rose. Brackhampton prided itself on being ‘a little bit of England in the Alps.’

“Well, little bit of England,” he murmured ominously, “you’d better cough up my big piece of England or you’re about to get the touch of the Irish.”

* * *

Jim looked at his watch and did more calculations. Then he considered various scenarios.

If Seb had been found injured but alive, a hospital might already have him. If he’d been found dead, the police mortuary might. He might be injured but conscious, able to walk away or at least seek shelter for himself somewhere. Or he could be lying dead in a proverbial ditch.

That ditch.

Jim pointed at a map. Then he skimmed text descriptions of the area.

The first order of business was to get himself some reliable transportation. And, he eyed the display of Bandrikan coffee by the register, perhaps, a talisman for good luck.

“A gift?” asked the barista in Badrikan as Jim tucked the bag under his arm.

“I certainly hope so,” he replied.

* * *

The hospital didn’t have Seb. The police mortuary didn’t have Seb.

Jim had resurrected a character he’d used a year prior when he was scoping out the possibilities of taking out Egon Hartz, the nephew of a Bandrikan chemist. Now he was sitting on a barstool in the only pub in Brackhampton, listening to the locals, straining his ears to catch something useful. Meanwhile, he also gently pumped the barman, a fellow who had just discovered, to his own surprise, that he was related to Jim’s ‘uncle,’ for information on Rutherford Hall.

Rutherford Hall was the name of the residence nearest to that curve of the train tracks, and Josiah Crackenthorpe owned the Hall and all the land around it, including the woods at the bottom of the embankment.

Jim learned the Crackenthorpes lived only in a small part of the huge, rundown manor house, and they were only four: the old man, a daughter, a granddaughter, and a dog. A few day staff, but the live-in housekeeper was away.

Jim listened and drank and drank and listened until the changeable, impatient part of him rose up and took charge.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Not another minute. The time for gathering intelligence was over.

It was already dark. Night came early in winter.

Jim had to know, had to see with his own eyes, if Seb was out there, dead or dying, beside the track. He couldn’t rest until he knew for certain.

He finished his pint, slid off the barstool, and left the pub.

In the end, Jim decided to stash the car and, timing his journey very carefully, march along the tracks until he reached the spot. He’d changed into his toughest boots, but he knew it was going to a challenge, searching as well as sliding down the embankment.

But if Seb could make it down the slope, well, so could he.

The snow had stopped failing, but it was still going to be his foremost nemesis. Snow obscured far too well; what traces might have existed once were now under a layer of white.

But not everything was against Jim, he had some moonlight.

* * *

Jim stowed the GPS when he reached the spot. With a high-powered torch, he did a quick search of the side of the tracks leading away from Rutherford Hall but found nothing.

Then he crossed the tracks.

From where he stood, Jim could see the Hall, the main house as well as a few smaller constructions, old stables, according to the barman. There was an expanse of woods between himself and the residence.

Jim stood with hands on hips and looked down the embankment.

At first glance, there was nothing, but Jim wasn’t satisfied.

“C’mon, Sebbie, where are you?”

Inch by inch, Jim made his way down the embankment, swinging the light of the torch back and forth.

“Damned snow.”

At the bottom, the woods obscured Jim’s view of Rutherford Hall.

Discouraged and disheartened, Jim fell back on his first refuge, his most primitive comfort.

Mathematics.

“Hit there at that speed,” he pointed up to the tracks and redid the calculations in his head, “he would’ve landed there,” he pointed to mid-way up the embankment, “and rolled” he drew the line with his hand to a spot before him, “to here. Bloody hell, Seb, where are you?”

He shone the torch. He shook his head.

Nothing.

Nothing that resembled a sniper-sized body. No scavengers, either.

“Wherever you are, Sebbie, you aren’t dead in this ditch. I suppose that should be some kind of comfort.”

But doubt crept into Jim’s mind and nagged him.

Was he on the right track at all?

In the snow, Jim couldn’t really pace, but he did his best, stomping heavily in a line parallel to the tracks above, swinging his flashlight and straining his eyes to catch sight of anything remotely resembling a person in any position prone, huddled, or otherwise.

No Seb.

No makeshift shelter, either.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

“Sebbie, where are you? C’mon, help a boss out. If I’m on the wrong track, let me know, and I’ll start over.”

Jim pivoted and went back, tracing his original path, his feet sinking deeper the snow.

Stomp, stomp—thud!

Jim tapped the ground with the toe of his boot, then he sank to his knees and, dropping his torch, started to dig with gloved hands.

As he raised the object, his eyes began to sting. He sniffed and wiped his face on his sleeve.

The next best thing to a sniper was a sniper’s gun.


	7. Part 2: Chapter 7: Who am I & Who are You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb wakes up without a memory; Jim closes in.

“How do you feel?”

“I’ve been better.”

The girl and the dog had reappeared with a collection of old cushions and pillows and arranged them so that he could lie more comfortably.

He winced and hissed, then settled back against the softness.

It was surreal.

The pain in his body. The emptiness in his head. The bizarreness of his environs.

This girl and her dog.

He was ensconced in a surprisingly hospitable bed made of sweet-smelling hay.

He was surrounded by old things, old statues and old garden tools and old games equipment. It was like a forgotten museum. Or a forgotten garden shed. Or a forgotten gymnasium cupboard.

Whatever it was, it was definitely forgotten.

But a stove puffed furiously, keeping the large space surprisingly warm.

Surprisingly hospitable. Surprisingly warm.

Everything was a surprise, including this girl and her dog.

“Water?”

Instinctively, he knew better than to move his head, even though his shoulder plagued him more.

“Yes, thank you,” he said.

She brought the cup to his lips and tipped it slowly. “I brought bread and cheese, a tin of peaches, a bit of Spanish omelet and a sausage. And a bed pan.”

“Bed pan? That’s…thoughtful.”

“Grandfather’s a sometime invalid. You get used to bed pans.”

“Huh. Just water right now, thank you. Bingley, sausage?”

Bingley woofed his wholehearted approval of the proposal and accepted the meat with open-jawed alacrity.

“Do you remember anything more? Your name? Where you’re from?”

That was the question he’d been asking himself since he resurfaced to consciousness.

“No. I do remember a face. Or maybe I dreamt it. And,” his words were interrupted by a long whistle, “I think I was on a train.”

“I think you were on a train, too. Bingley and I found you at the bottom of the embankment, below the tracks.”

The dog licked his palm.

He petted the dog. It was a good dog, he decided.

The embankment below the tracks.

He struggled, in vain, to recall what ‘the embankment below the tracks’ looked like. Or what it felt like.

One word.

Cold.

“Speaking of faces, I’ve got a mirror.”

“Excellent. You’re a smart girl. Let’s take a look at this mug of mine.”

She produced a hand mirror from her satchel and held it before him.

Dark hair, dark scruff, light coloured eyes, flattish nose, square jaw, square chin. Haggard, but strong. He brought his hand on his good side to his face and watched that hand move over features.

Then he saw his shoulder.

“Yes, you have a tattoo.” She moved the mirror. “Do you remember it?”

His nose twitched as he studied at the tiger. He spoke slowly, choosing his words deliberately.

“I don’t remember it, but it’s not unfamiliar. That doesn’t make sense at all, does it?” He sighed. “How can a person not recognise their own body?”

“One possibility is that the circumstances of your injury were traumatic. Or so I read.”

“My kind don’t have un-traumatic injuries.”

_Now why had he said that?_

The girl wondered, too. “What kind is that?”

He searched himself and found no answer. “I don’t know.”

“Are you a spy?”

He laughed. “If I am, I’m the worst one in the world!” His lips curled in a grin. “Or the best. I’m keeping secrets even from myself!”

The girl smiled, too, and he was glad. He meant her no harm, and he hoped she knew that.

“Are you a soldier?”

Something in him stirred. “Yes?” he replied carefully and uncertainly, drawing the word out to four syllables. “Maybe,” he amended. “Something says yes. Something says no. Christ, this is fucked up. Oh, excuse me.”

“It’s all right. It _is_ strange.”

An awkward silence fell between them. His eyes darted about.

“By the way, where am I?”

“Oh, yes, how stupid of me. I should’ve brought a map. You’re on the outskirts of Brackhampton, Bandrika. It’s a kind of English enclave in Bandrika. You’re English, aren’t you? Or at least your accent is English. I know you aren’t from Brackhampton. The village is too small. Everyone knows everyone here.”

He hummed noncommittally. “And this place is?”

“The long barn of Rutherford Hall. It has been used by my family, the Crackenthorpes, as a lumber room and a garden shed, but it’s where I spend most of my time. The main house can be gloomy. I live in there with my grandfather, my Aunt Emma, Bingley, and a housekeeper who is away.”

“Where are your parents?”

“My mother died. My father lives in England.”

“You go to school?”

“Yes. I’m on winter break.”

“Your family’s rich?”

“Sort of. The house is big but most of it is falling down. The grounds are ample, but mostly untended. There’s a gardener, but he’s about a hundred years old and at the moment he’s recovering from pneumonia.”

A train blasted its horn. The girl resumed her explanation when it had passed.

“Grandfather would never sell an inch of the land. Neither would his father. That’s why the tracks go round us. A stubborn lot. Uncle Harold runs the business from Geneva. Crackenthorpe’s Fancies. Biscuits.”

“Huh. Thank you very much for rescuing me.” He looked at the dog. “And you, too, Bingley.”

Bingley stopped licking invisible traces of sausage from his lips. He thumped his tail and moved closer, eagerly accepting the proffered scratches behind the ears.

“How did you manage getting me from the embankment to here?”

“With that sled.” The girl gestured toward the bladed apparatus leaning next to the door. “It was snowing. Are you cold? I brought more firewood.” She went to the stove and stoked it. “I brought you here directly. No one in the main house saw me, and I haven’t said anything about you to Aunt Em. I don’t know why. I just…”

Her face clouded.

“It’s all right. I don’t know why, either, but something tells me you made the right decision. For now. And no, I’m not cold. I’m surprisingly warm and comfortable and unconcerned for a man who doesn’t know who he is or how he got where he is.” There was that word again. Surprisingly. “Do you have another mirror?”

“No,” she apologised. “I just brought the one.”

“Bring another the next time you come. I want to see the wounds. Especially the shoulder.”

Something about it worried him. The pain was too sharp, too warm.

“Do the words mean Martine C. Verbier mean anything to you?” she asked.

He searched his mind. “No. Not a thing. Why?”

“It was written in ink on your neck. On that side. I washed it off when I did the bandage. The C was smudged. Maybe it was ‘Charlotte’ or ‘Catherine.’ I couldn’t tell.”

“Martine C. Verbier,” he repeated. “Martine C. Verbier. No, I don’t know her.”

“I asked at dinner. Aunt Em and Grandfather looked rather strange, and then Aunt Em said that Verbier was a place in Switzerland.”

“Who is she? My wife? Girlfriend? Daughter? Or something else entirely?” He groaned in pure frustration.

“Everything I’ve read say that your type of memory loss is temporary.”

“Yeah? God, I hope so. It’s frustrating. I can’t remember anything!”

“Except that you were on a train.”

“Yes, listening to that racket has convinced me of that.”

“What about the face you remember?”

“Not my own. Sort of like yours, actually. But a boy’s face, I think. Young.”

“I brought my sketchbook. Would you like me to see if I can draw it?”

“It’s worth a try. But it’s late. Are you going to get in trouble being out here?”

“No. Nobody pays much attention to what I do. Aunt Em is too busy, and Grandfather is too selfish and old.”

“Sort of a lonely life then.”

“Bit.”

“Come and sit here.” He patted the side of the hay bed. “I’ll close my eyes and try to describe him, and you draw, and we’ll see what we can come up with.”

* * *

Alexandra woke to a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Go to bed.”

She turned to look him and drew in a breath.

“You don’t look so good.”

“Shoulder’s hurting a bit. Go.”

“I’ll bring you some breakfast as soon as I’m able.”

“Just go, my dear.”

As Alexandra folded up her sketchbook, she spied a word scribbled in an uneven hand beneath the face that she and the stranger had taken such pains to create.

JIMMY

* * *

“I’m sorry. I’m not hungry.”

“You didn’t eat much breakfast either.”

He grunted.

“Who is Jimmy?”

“Jimmy?”

“You wrote it on my sketchbook.”

“Oh, the face. But I don’t know who he is. I kept thinking of his face, and the name came to me. I was afraid I’d forget it, so I wrote it down. Hold it. Right there. Just like that.”

“You still don’t look good.”

He studied the image in the second mirror. “That’s because I’ve been shot.”

“Oh, god!” Alexandra dropped the mirror.

Just then, voice outside called.

“ _Alexandra!_ ”

“Oh, God! Aunt Em!”

“Go. I’ll survive.”

* * *

“Oh, here she is. Alexandra, this is Miss Marple. The agency just sent her to help while Lucy’s away.”

“Hello,” said Alexandra mechanically.

“Hello, my dear. Alexandra, what a beautiful name! Please do call me ‘Miss Jane.’”

Alexandra was barely listening. His words were echoing in her mind.

_I’ve been shot._

“Alexandra.”

Alexandra blinked. And looked. And when she looked, she couldn’t help but stare.

Miss Jane Marple was the oddest person she’d ever seen.

Short. Plump. A nest of grey hair. A singing quality to her voice. Large, thick spectacles hung with gold chain. A hard face. Shapeless clothes. Skirt, blouse, cardigan. Sturdy boots.

She looked like a character in a book. She might have been cheerful, jolly, even, the jolly fisherman’s wife or the jolly nanny or the jolly postmistress, but for her eyes.

Dark, dark eyes.

Alexandra finally understood that line.

_She felt seen._

“What a grand house you have! I should like to see all of it, get the lay of the land, so to speak. Best to know all the corners before you sweep, that’s what mother always used to say!” The laugh was a tinkling sort of laugh that didn’t seem real. The dark eyes softened until they shot a look at Aunt Em was positively endearing, but Alexandra could not shake the sensation she, Alexandra, was being studied.

“You have a delightful accent,” remarked Aunt Em, whose eyes were boring into Alexandra, telepathically screaming ‘Please be nice.’

“County Clare, don’t you know?”

“How lovely. Before I forget, Alexandra, Doctor Quimper is coming to see Grandfather, and I might not be about. Could you make certain he gets his novel back? I didn’t have time to read it but tell him I enjoyed it.”

“Of course,” said Alexandra.

* * *

“And this is the library.”

Alexandra started and dropped the book.

Aunt Em and Miss Jane were, evidently, still on their tour!

“A studious lass. How wonderful. Education is the key that unlocks so many doors.” As the old lady spoke, she swooped down, with unexpected speed, and retrieved the book from the rug. “A medical textbook. Do we have a budding doctor in the house?” Again, laughter tinkled like a wind chime; her enormous chest heaved.

“I am working towards my First Aid badge,” explained Alexandra flatly.

“Ah, ha!” Miss Jane clapped her hands together. “A Girl Guide! How marvelous! I _am_ glad to hear that. Such a wonderful organisation. And I’m certain you’re the kind of girl who does a good turn every day.”

“I try,” said Alexandra feebly.

Fed up, she decided to fight fire with fire and turn her own hard stare upon the housekeeper.

_Who am I? Well, who are you?_

They looked at each other very intently, and Alexandra thought, but she was probably mistaken, that she saw a glint of satisfaction in the old lady’s eyes.

Satisfaction. And something else. Something familiar.

“I say, Miss Crackenthorpe, why don’t I make a nice tea for everyone, you and Alexandra and your father, of course, and this Doctor Quimper. Doctors are always hungry, bless them.”

“Are you certain you don’t want to unpack your things? Get settled in?”

“Begin as you mean to get on, I always say, and I’m eager to get to work in that kitchen!”

“Oh, well, tea sounds rather wonderful.”

* * *

Alexandra knew she was out of her depth as she gazed helplessly into Doctor Quimper’s open Gladstone.

Bottles. Vials. Syringes. Bandages.

What would help him?

Alexandra felt utterly defeated.

The game was up. She needed to tell someone. The paracetamol wasn’t working.

“My dear.”

Alexandra turned and froze, pinned where she stood like a butterfly.

“Aren’t you coming to tea, my dear?”

Alexandra nodded and swallowed and stepped to the side.

Miss Jane took Alexandra’s place.

“I quite understand. So many interesting things in a bag like this. It’s difficult not to stare.”

She was in profile.

A strange winter light filtered through the window of Grandfather’s study, and perhaps it was that light or the angle at which the light hit the face which made Alexandra see what she had not seen before.

Miss Jane wasn’t an old woman.

She was something else, someone else, someone Alexandra recognised.

She gasped.

Miss Jane turned.

Their eyes met.

Alexandra whispered in a voice so soft that even she herself couldn’t hear it over the wild and raucous pounding of her heart.

_“Are you Jimmy?”_


	8. Part 2: Chapter 8: Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb & Jim are reunited.

_“Are you Jimmy?”_

Something hot and dangerous, something that had been lying coiled and careful inside Jim, rattled awake.

They spoke in quick, soft tones.

“Yes. Where is he?”

“The long barn. Do you know who he is?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Doesn’t what?”

“Know who he is. Or where he’s from. Or how he got hurt. He can’t remember anything except your face and your name and that he was on a train. He hit his head, and he says,” she paused and licked her lips, “he says he’s been shot.”

Ah. The final piece of the puzzle.

“Take me to him, please.”

* * *

They moved at a normal speed until they left the main house. Then Alexandra had to take two steps to Miss Jane’s one to keep up, even though the strides weren’t long.

“You’re a good actor.”

_No, thank you, but thank you. I’m so glad you like the sandwiches and scones. My grandmother’s recipes. Alexandra has agreed to show me the grounds, and I think we’d better go before it gets dark. Enjoy yourselves. And just leave everything, Mrs. Crackenthorpe. I’ll be back to clear up shortly._

“So are you.”

“He’s not doing so well today. He’s got a fever.” 

* * *

Bingley suddenly got to his paws, whined, and trotted over to Alexandra.

Someone was with her. The aunt?

“Seb?”

Alexandra’s voice whispering. “Is that his name?”

“Yes, his name is Sebastian.”

Sebastian. Yes, that was his name.

“Who are you?”

“Jimmy. I’ve been looking for you.”

The figure moved closer.

“You don’t look like Jimmy.”

This was someone’s Nan, but the voice…

“Let me see.”

Sebastian groaned as hands turned him. “Got to come out,” he mumbled. “Can’t do it myself.”

“Yeah. I’ll take it out.”

“Don’t hurt the girl, Jimmy. She’s been good to me.”

“I’m not going to hurt the girl, Seb. Or the dog.”

* * *

“I tried to help him.”

Jim put his hands firmly on the girl’s shoulders and held her teary gaze.

“You did wonderfully, my dear. He just needs a bit more. You’re brave and clever, but I need you to be even more brave and clever. Can you do that?”

She nodded.

“She’s good, Jimmy,” slurred Seb.

Jim turned his head. “I know. Hush.” Then he turned back to the girl.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go back to the main house and get supplies. This is what I need you to collect.” He rattled off a list of items. “Say it back to me.”

She repeated the list in a shaky voice.

“One more time.”

She did it again more calmly.

“Good. You were right about Doctor Quimper’s bag. We’re going to need a few things from there, too. You leave that to me, but we need to get back before he goes. We’ll meet in the kitchen when I’m doing the washing up after tea. Then we’ll come back here, and you’re going to earn that First Aid badge. You’re going to earn every bloody badge those Guides give. All right?”

“Don’t swear, Jimmy.”

“Shut up.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes, he’s going to be fine. He’s tough. Very tough. He just needs a bit of help from us.”

“You and he are friends?”

“Yes. We work together.”

“Soldiers?”

“Not quite. Listen, there isn’t time for explanations. Remember what I told you to get?”

“Yes.”

“And you can keep a secret? No blabbing to your friends?”

“I don’t have any friends, and I’ve kept him secret until now, haven’t I?”

“Good point. But you’re _his_ friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

The dog interrupted with an affronted woof.

Jim looked down and almost smiled.

“And you must be the famous Bingley I’ve been hearing so much about. Best sausages for you if you do your part and keep watch. Let’s go.”

The dog wagged his tail and trotted towards the door.

* * *

He’d finally found him.

Relief washed over Jim as he scrubbed and rinsed.

All in all, he considered, doing the dishes was not a bad way to think.

After he’d found Seb’s gun, he’d searched every inch of the woods between Rutherford Hall and the tracks. He’d been discouraged when he’d found no further trace of his sniper. He’d been exhausted, too, though he loathed admitting it.

He’d climbed back up the embankment and returned to the car and kipped for a couple of hours.

In the morning, he’d checked the police and the hospitals, but there was still no joy.

Seb had simply vanished. The gun was Jim’s only clue that he’d even existed.

In the end, Jim had surrendered to instinct, and instinct told him that Seb had somehow made it to Rutherford Hall. The family kept themselves to themselves. They had very few workers from outside, and thus there was little opportunity for gossip to leak to the village about an unknown wounded man showing up on their doorstep.

Jim could’ve waited until dark, but he didn’t want to wait, so he quickly manufactured a way to be let in the front door.

And it had worked!

Mission accomplished. On to the next mission.

Bullet out. Memory back.

The washing up was done by the time Alexandra arrived, and with Bingley trotting behind them, they hurried to the long barn.

* * *

“You’re going to do just what I say, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl. If you feel dizzy, sit down. It’s ok. Now, let’s go to work.”

* * *

“You did very well, my dear, with the original first response,” he said conversationally. “Not your fault that you haven’t much experience with bullets. In fact, it’s probably a good thing. There.” Metal pinged in a cup. “There’s your souvenir for one day in the future when you wonder if this whole thing was just a dream.” He turned his head. “You’re going to feel much better now, Seb. We’ll get you patched up. Some antibiotics, too.”

He’d felt her eyes on him for a long time before she got up the courage to ask.

“You said you worked together. Are you doctors?”

“No, and you should always remember, my girl, to be wary of doctors. When a doctor goes wrong, he is the first of criminals.”

“You aren’t doctors. You aren’t soldiers. What are you?”

“What we are,” he said, his grin hidden by his face mask, “is good old-fashioned villains. Hm, Sebbie?”

Seb grunted. “Bastards, too.”

“Only in spirit, though, our mothers and fathers were, in fact, married. More’s the pity. All right, we’ll put all the rubbish and dirty linen over there, and I’ll get rid of it later. Your aunt’s probably wondering what I’ve got up to. I’ll go back to the house and get supper on. You and Bingley stay here and keep an eye on him. If anything happens, come and get me. If everything is under control, come for supper, and I’ll take your place here.”

She nodded.

“You did splendidly. Didn’t she, Seb?”

Seb grunted.

* * *

“He is doing much better, isn’t he?”

“I think so. The fever’s gone. We’ll be able to tell more when he wakes up.”

“I’ve been wondering what kind of person knows how to remove a bullet _and_ make smashing roast beef, and treacle tart?”

“That’s funny. I’ve been wondering what kind of kid hides a wounded stranger in a shed between a sarcophagus and a hideous replica of the Venus de Milo?”

“I was bored.”

“Not anymore, eh?”

“No!”

They laughed.

They had cleared a path through the centre of the long barn and were sitting at either end taking turns throwing a ball to Bingley and feeding him pieces of sausage.

“I’m glad you liked the treacle tart. I worked hard on that.”

“Aunt Em liked it, too. She likes you. She said so tonight.”

“Your Aunt Em needs to be more careful.”

“Why?”

“She’s the kind of person who gets used by people like me. I only want to be her housekeeper. Someone else might want something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like your grandfather’s money.”

“Oh.”

There followed a silence only interrupted by the sound of Bingley’s scampering.

“Who shot him?”

“Another villain.”

“And this other villain threw him off the train, too?”

“She didn’t have to. He fell.”

“She?!”

“Villainy is an equal opportunity profession, m’dear.”

“I’ll remember that for Careers Day.”

* * *

“Was her name Martine C. Verbier? The woman who shot him?”

He stared, then said,

“Yes, but don’t mention to him, okay?”

“Oh, I already did, but he didn’t recognise her name.”

“Well, don’t mention it again. I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.”

* * *

“Jimmy?”

“I’m here. How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“The girl?”

“Gone to bed. The dog, too.”

“Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“You don’t remember. Why’d you play along, you git?”

“I had a bullet in me, and you seemed to know what you were doing, and I wasn’t exactly in a position to argue.”

In the dark, Jim smiled. “We met once when we were kids.”

“Yeah? What happened?”

“Some other kids were beating the shite out of me. You stopped them.”

“And?”

“And they all died in a fire.”

“Jesus Christ. No, I mean, us. We met once when we were kids, but we’re not kids now. Have we always been friends?”

“No. We met again about a year and a half ago. You were out of work. I knew someone who was hiring.”

“I was working when I was on that train, wasn’t I?”

“Yes. What do you remember?”

“Waiting, waiting, BAM, BAM, then cold, then nothing. What’s my name?”

“Sebastian.”

“Yeah, but Sebastian what?”

“Sebastian Moran. But you were calling yourself Sebastian Froy on the train.”

“Huh. Just what kind of ‘old-fashioned villain’ am I?”

Jim smiled again. The best kind, my kind, he thought, but what he said was,

“Think you could sit up?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Then I’ll show you.”

It took a few minutes and a lot of assistance for Seb to get arranged properly on his makeshift bed.

“Consider this your first memory test. Or just an experiment,” said Jim. “If you don’t pass, no big deal. You can re-take it as often as you need. Close your eyes. No peeking.”

In a minute, Jim was by Seb’s bedside, and several objects were laid on the blanket covering Seb’s lap.

“All right. Open your eyes.”

Jim held his breath. And counted.

Ten seconds.

Ten long seconds of nothing.

Then Seb’s hands started to move, quickly, efficiently, fingers like spider’s legs dancing.

Jim’s heart leapt.

All wasn’t lost! Part of him still remembered!

Seb tried to bring the assembled rifle to his shoulder, but it proved too painful. Jim held it for him while he tilted his head to look through the scope.

“This is what I was doing when I was shot, yes?”

“Yes.”

Seb closed his eyes. Jim watched the rise and fall of his chest.

“I was on top of the train.”

“Yes.”

“Waiting for my shot.”

“Yes.”

“There was a curve and an incline.”

“Yes.”

“I was waiting for a window to come into view. With that curve and at that incline, there would be a head in a window. I knew that.”

“Yes.”

“Waiting, waiting…”

Jim said nothing.

“…and then she clipped me.”

“She?”

“That was my thought as I fell. ‘Damn, she clipped me.’”

Seb motioned for Jim to lower the rifle.

Jim laid it across Seb’s lap.

Seb examined the rifle with one hand. “Why do you have it?”

“You dropped it when you fell. I found it in the snow at the bottom of the embankment.”

“When you went looking for me?”

“Yes. I was on the train, too, with you, but I didn’t understand right away that you had fallen off. You just vanished, and I didn’t know why. It took some time to figure things out. I came here to look for you, but I couldn’t find you. The hospitals and the police didn’t have any record of you. No one was gossiping about you at the pub. I searched the embankment and the woods and found this gun and concluded you must’ve ended up here, at the Hall.”

“You figured it all out in less than two days. You must be the brains of our operation.”

“Something like that.”

Seb sighed and nodded at the gun. “Put this away. I don’t want Alexandra to see it.”

“It’s almost dawn. I’m going to go back to the main house in a bit.”

“To be Miss Jane Marple?”

“Yes. You need at least a couple more days to recover, and here’s as good as anywhere to do that.”

“Is the woman who shot me looking for me, too?”

“No. She thinks you’re dead, and even if she found out you weren’t, you’re not on her radar anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not trying to kill her boyfriend anymore. Listen, I think it might be a little premature to go into all this. Rest and see what of the past comes back to you naturally. In the meantime, no one is looking for us here, so let’s just lay low while you get your strength and your memory back.”

“Yeah, I’m not quite ready to face the world. It’s very frustrating, though. I want to remember!”

“But you need to rest, too. Body, mind, all that.”

“I haven’t said it yet but thank you for everything. I am grateful. I think we must be best friends for you to go to all this trouble to find me.”

“You’re very welcome. Don’t worry about what we are. Don’t worry about anything except getting better.”


	9. Part 2: Chapter 9: Bit by Bit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit by bit, Seb regains his memory.

“I didn’t see much of you today. What did you get up to?”

“Let’s see. I stoked the boiler. Then I prepared vegetables; assembled, cooked, and served breakfast; washed up; made beds; scrubbed the kitchen table; polished silver; assembled, cooked, and served lunch; washed up; scrubbed the bathrooms; did the floors…”

“Stop! I’m getting tired just listening to you. Do you enjoy playing the part of Miss Jane, the domestic goddess?”

“No, but work helps to pass the time. It wasn’t all scullery duty. In the afternoon, I helped Alexandra with her Confectionery badge.”

“Ah, the truffles.”

“Yes.”

“They were good.”

“Thank you. Tomorrow we’re trying almond butter toffee. What else did I do? I had some banter with Grandfather, swapped village gossip with Mrs. Kidder, and listened to Aunt Em’s worries. And drank an astounding number of cups of tea. What did you do?”

“I managed to walk to the door and back twice without collapsing. And took a piss standing up.”

“Excellent! It was a good day for both of us.”

“Oh, I did help Alexandra with her Whittling badge.”

“Did you now? That was nice of you.”

“Apparently I’m rather handy with a knife.”

“Huh. Who’d have thought it?”

Their eyes met.

“Aren’t you tired, Miss Jane?”

“A bit. Are you?”

“A bit. Thank you for the hot water, by the way. I had a good scrubbing myself.”

“You’re welcome. It was a gift to us all. Even Bingley told me you were beginning to niff.”

“Did he now? That mangy mutt! So, what do you think about Alexandra’s request?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to get the script straight. Not everything that’s happened is fit for public consumption. And then there’s Aunt Em to deal with. But how about you? How do you feel about staying here another three days?”

“I want to help Alexandra out, but that’s about my limit. Memory or no memory, in three days, I’m going to want to get out of here.”

“Yeah, but I have to warn you, three more days like today, and Alexandra’s grandfather is probably going to propose to me.”

* * *

The truth was that all the drudgery had proved a welcome distraction for Jim. He had kept tabs on Seb’s condition through Alexandra, but he’d purposefully put himself at a distance from Seb.

He was simply treading water, waiting for Seb’s memory, for all of Seb’s memories, to return. He knew it wasn’t a process he could rush, and he didn’t _want_ to rush it. Well, he was impatient by nature, so maybe he wanted to rush it a little bit, with things like the gun and the knifework, but not too hard, not really. Seb’s memory had to come back on its own, of its own accord, or else Jim couldn’t trust it, couldn’t be certain it was real.

If Seb’s memory came back, Jim told himself, he would remember how strong he was, remember all the beatings he’d taken, and he’d know that he was more than ready to leave this kennel.

Jim checked the clock. It was almost four in the morning, and he knew that almost four in the morning was never a good time for thinking rationally.

Even knowing this, the doubt crept in.

What if Seb remembered some things but not other things?

Jim tried telling himself that that was not how it worked. When Seb started remembering things, he’d end up remembering everything.

But…

But what if he only remembered the jobs, the work? What if he never remembered that he and Jim were lovers?

Well, maybe ‘lovers’ was too much. They fucked, and they liked fucking. And they were good at it, damn it!

What if Seb remembered everything, but he didn’t feel the same way anymore? Maybe that blow to his head was like hitting a reset button. That might be even worse. A fresh little hell. Jim wasn’t cut out for pining.

If he and Seb were just friends and associates, or perhaps, more precisely, accomplices before, after and during the fact, well, that’d be all right, wouldn’t it? Just bury the past. After all, a good sniper was hard to find. And Jim didn’t have any friends. He just had one. Seb.

Or maybe he and Seb would just start over, but they’d follow the same path and reach the same destination. That wasn’t such an awful thought, but it played bloody hell with Jim’s considerations for the immediate future, their future after Rutherford Hall.

Fingertips brushed Jim’s hair, yanking him out of his deep, dark well of rumination.

“Hey?”

“I’m here. You okay?”

“Yeah. I just remembered something. Or dreamt it. Or both.”

Jim’s heart was in his throat. “Yeah?” he breathed.

“And I realised that you lied to me.”

Jim frowned. “About what?”

“I don’t call you ‘Jimmy.’”

“True, but that wasn’t a lie. I just didn’t want to correct you. You were in a fragile state, yeah?”

“Yeah, but the truth is I’ve never called you ‘Jimmy.’ Not even when we were kids.”

“That’s true. You heard the kids who were beating me up call me that, but you never called me it yourself.”

“You told me to call you ‘Nobody.’ Like in _The Odyssey_.”

“What can I say? I’ve always favoured a touch of the dramatic, even when I was getting my arse whipped by a bunch of prepubescent Cyclops.”

“That’s not the only thing I remember.”

Oh, God. “Yeah?”

“I remember what I call you now.”

“What’s that?”

“Boss. I work for you. You pay me to kill people. Like that man on the train.”

“And other things. Do you remember what I call you?”

“Moran.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

“Not yet. Give me time.”

“Take all the time you need.”

“And by that you mean…”

Jim snorted a laugh. “…three days.”

Seb sighed long and loud, then said,

“Don’t lie to me, boss.”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Moran, but I’m not going to tell you everything. Not right now, at least.”

“Are you going to tell me who Martine C. Verbier is?”

“Ah, Alexandra told you about that. Yeah, I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Sister, daughter, wife, girlfriend, ex?”

“No, no, no, no and no. And that’s the truth.”

“Was it the name of the woman who shot me?”

“No.”

“I’m not going to play ‘Twenty Questions’ with you, arsehole.”

“Call me all the names you want, but don’t ask me anymore, Seb. Please.”

“All right.” There was a hand on Jim’s shoulder, and he fought hard not to lean into the touch. God, he wanted to. He wanted to crawl into Seb’s arms and hide. “After all, even when I didn’t know my own name, I knew yours. That’s got to mean something, doesn’t it?”

And there was Jim’s hope in a nutshell.

* * *

“Did you have a good nap? Alexandra said that you wanted to see me about—mmpgh!”

“I. Remember. Everything.”

“Oh, oh, oh! Oh, Sebbie, oh, my tiger.”

“Tomorrow night, after we leave here, we’re going to have a nice, long chat about it, and when I say ‘chat,’ I mean…”

“ _Fuck!_ ”

“Exactly, but we’re going to behave ourselves until then, understand? That means tonight, you sleep in the main house.”

“Oh, Seb, but can’t we—mmpgh!”

“That’s all you get, Miss Jane. Go!”


	10. Part 2: Chapter 10: All's Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb and Jim do Alexandra a good turn and drive off into the proverbial sunset.
> 
> A final thank you to [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts) for supporting a great cause!
> 
> There may be a final fic (a PWP) in this series of Jim & Seb at the cabin.

“Oh dear.”

“What is it, Aunt Em?”

“It’s a message from Lucy. She’s returning early. Her aunt has fully recovered, and she will be back with us tomorrow. Oh, my goodness, I’ll have to tell Miss Jane. That’s too bad. I do so like her. And she has been so helpful with Grandfather and your badges.”

“There’s a season to everything, Aunt Em.”

“I suppose so, and it will be nice to have Lucy back.”

“Miss Jane has promised to come tonight to the unit meeting.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

* * *

“It took some doing, but I managed it,” said Jim. “Just picked it up at the post office.”

Seb looked into the box. He couldn’t resist reaching in and fingered the wool.

“You really can’t resist a touch of the dramatic, can you, boss?”

“Nope. Are you in?”

“I don’t do this as well as you do. I don’t just slip into the role of another with the ease that you do. I don’t act as gracefully and as convincingly as you do. I don’t lie like you do.”

Jim waited. “But?”

Seb sighed. “But, after all that, yes. I’m in."

* * *

“…and that is how I applied the instruction I received in the Girl Guide First Responder Course to a real-life emergency.”

Twenty-four pairs of eyes stared at Alexandra.

Twenty of them belonged to Girl Guides who were seated cross-legged on the floor.

Four belonged to adults sitting in chairs.

Only Miss Jane’s dark eyes were smiling.

Aunt Em’s eyes were wide, so was her mouth, which was hanging open.

The Guide leader and the assistant Guide leader exchanged a glance, then the Guide leader said,

“Alexandra, there’s no doubt that through your extraordinary efforts you have earned a Confectionery badge and a Whittling badge,” each of the twenty girls was holding in one hand a cellophane bag filled with homemade chocolates and in the other a hand-carved wooden whistle, “but this story about rescuing a man in the snow, while compelling and entertaining, also sounds rather fantastic.”

The assistant Guide leader interjected hastily, “But is there a Storytelling badge, Guide leader?”

“Well…”

“Excuse me for interrupting.”

Twenty-four heads turned toward the baritone voice.

No one was looking at Miss Jane, who was biting her lip and trying not to swoon at the tall, handsome, uniformed officer standing in the threshold with his hat tucked under his arm.

“My name is Colonel Sebastian Froy, and I owe this young lady, Miss Alexandra Crackenthorpe-Easterly,” he pointed to Alexandra, who grinned, “my life. May I interrupt your meeting? I should like to tell my side of the story.”

“By all means,” stammered the Guide leader.

Aunt Em turned to Miss Jane.

“Did you know about this?”

“No, indeed. A total shock! But I think we should hear what he has to say, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

\---

“Good-bye, Miss Jane,” said Aunt Em. “I’m sorry your stay has been so short.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Crackenthorpe. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day. Good-bye, Alexandra. And congratulations again on those badges. You earned them, and then some. You should be very proud of her, Mrs. Crackenthorpe.”

“I am,” said Aunt Em, wrapping her arm around Alexandra and squeezing. “But in the future, I’ll try not to be so blind as to what’s going on under my own nose!” She turned toward the car. “Thank you, Colonel Froy for agreeing to take Miss Jane to the station.”

“My pleasure. Good-bye, Alexandra. And thank you for everything.”

“Good-bye, Colonel,” said Alexandra. “Do be careful. There might not be a Guide to rescue you next time.”

Suddenly, there was woofing and paws running.

“Oh, Bingley!” cried Miss Jane. “I wouldn’t forget to say good-bye to you. And here are your sausages!” She threw one link to the dog and gave the rest over to Alexandra.

Soon the car was rumbling away from Rutherford Hall.

* * *

“Oh, my fur and whiskers!” said Jim. “I think that’s the most wholesome evening I’ve spent in a long time!”

“For the record, I think you would’ve made an excellent Girl Guide.”

“You know what? So do I! It might have saved me from a life of crime!”

Seb chuckled. “Somehow, I doubt that, but where are we going? To the station? Back to London?”

“No. I think I’ve had enough of trains for a while. If you head toward the Swiss border, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“It’s about time. All right. I’m listening. Begin at the beginning.”

“I didn’t doubt you could handle the Hartz job by yourself.”

“Well, you were wrong about that, as it turned out.”

“After you’d left for Bandrika, I got to thinking…”

“When I saw you at the station in the train attendant’s uniform, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, I know I fucked up the Andrews job…”

“For the last time, you didn’t fuck up the Andrews job! Easterbrook fucked up the Andrews job. You just got caught. Like I said then, it wasn’t a test, but you passed. So, anyway, I decided that I would go to Bandrika, too, and be on the train with you and Hartz. And then, I’m at the station, you’re at the station, Hartz is at the station, everything’s a go. And then bloody fucking Mycroft Holmes shows up!”

“I didn’t know he would be there.”

“You didn’t know because I didn’t know! Christ, don’t you think I would’ve told you if I’d known! I suppose I should’ve guessed, but he really hates legwork. Even for Hartz I never dreamed he’d go back into the field.”

“So, bottom line, it was a surprise for both of us.”

“Yes, and I got distracted. I was too busy taking the piss of Holmes that I missed the signs about Marie. She switched places with Todhunter’s mistress, and I didn’t catch it until it was too late. And it’s Mycroft Holmes’s fault.”

“It’s your fault that you like fucking with Holmes.”

“I don’t like fucking with Holmes as much as he’d like to be fucking with you.”

“Hey, my memory’s back, remember? And I can tell you that Holmes and I have never…wait, are you jealous of him?”

“Of course not.”

“Right. Go on.”

“I got distracted. I got sloppy. You vanished, and I had to find you. You vanished, and I never got to tell you why I was there in the first place.”

“And why were you there in the first place? It wasn’t about helping me or giving me the sack, literally or figuratively.”

“No, it wasn’t any of that. Well, after the Andrews job…”

“Yeah?”

“After the Andrews job, I thought it might be nice if we, that is, you and I, took a break. You know, spent some time together. Not a job. Just, you know, together. Not London. Somewhere quiet. Out of the way. And I was planning to ask you if you’d be interested in something like that but then Mycroft bloody Holmes started poking his big beak into my hit, and I forgot to ask you.”

“You came all the way to Bandrika to ask me to go on holiday with you?”

“Yeah, so, what do you think about that?”

“I think it’s a great idea. I think ‘yes.’”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Where did you have in mind?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I sort of, you know, got a little place in the mountains. It’s called Martine Cottage…”

“In Verbier! In Switzerland! Christ, and you wrote on me so I would meet you there! Yes, I remember!”

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry. So, that’s where we’re headed?”

“Yeah, if you want.”

“I want. For how long?”

“A week. Two. As long as you want. And I bought this.” Jim reached into the backseat. He held up the bag triumphantly.

“Oh, yes!” cried Seb. “Bandrikan coffee! I’m so looking forward to this. We’re going to have a great time. I can rest up my shoulder, and help you get that bad wholesome taste out of your mouth.”

“You can pull over right now if you want to get started on that.”

“No, we’re going to wait until we get to our Alpine retreat.”

“Ugh. Brute! You’re torturing me.”

“I haven’t even started, boss, but wait, what happened to Hartz? Did you kill him?”

“No, there wasn’t time, and I had more important things to think about.”

“So, are we going to get him later, after our holiday?”

“No, I think by the time we get back to London, he’ll be dead.”

“By Holmes?”

“If I were a betting man, I would say that Holmes will get the credit, but I think the real culprit will be someone a lot closer to home, Doctor Egon Hartz’s home, that is.”

Seb gave a long whistle. “Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s a good shot, I’ll give her that.”

“She told me what she’d done to you. She told me she shot you.”

“Really? And you let her go?”

“I had more important things on my mind, and I thought she might be more useful than Holmes in terms of eliminating Hartz. I suppose time will tell if I’m right about that.”

“You think she’ll tell you when she does it? Send you a postcard ‘Weather is here. Wish you were beautiful. Just capped the old man. Cheers.’”

“She might. Sometimes people like us get sentimental.”

“Yeah, you do sometimes.”

Seb wasn’t looking, but Jim’s face fell sober and earnest.

“When I realised that you might by lying dead or dying in the snow somewhere, none of it mattered. Not Hartz, not Holmes, not anything. Oh, wait.” Jim reached into the back seat again. Then he lowered the window and hurled something into the night. He raised the window and said, “Almost forgot about that.”

“What the hell? Did you just throw a snow globe out the window?”

“It was a tracking device Holmes gave me. I didn’t mind it when I thought there was a small chance that he could be useful in finding you, but he’s not coming on holiday with us.”

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe everything you’ve done for me.”

Jim shrugged. “It’s what you do when your sniper vanishes.”

With one eye on the road, Seb leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.


End file.
